


One Year Later than Last Year

by theheartbelieves



Category: A Single Man (2009), Closer to the Moon (2014)
Genre: Bi Max, Crossover, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, M/M, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, One Shot, Rarepair, Stirth, they both lived
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:17:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartbelieves/pseuds/theheartbelieves
Summary: George contemplates his last year on the eve of a new one, only to be interrupted by his best friend, Max.





	One Year Later than Last Year

**Author's Note:**

> “But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labeled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until — later of sooner — perhaps — no, not perhaps — quite certainly: it will come.”  
> -George, A Single Man

George hated work functions. Wouldn’t these people rather with their families? Wouldn’t they rather be home? He knew he would. It was too cold and the forced cheer did little to warm him. If anything, he felt colder in his isolation. Self induced, sure, but better than having to fake it for people he barely tolerated on the best of days.

He stood outside the cafeteria and watched his breath steam in front of him as he looked out across the campus. Another year gone by and what did he have to show for it? Another twelve months without Jim. It struck him that his heart didn’t hurt as acutely as it normally did when thinking about Jim. That, he supposed, was this year’s big achievement: forgetting.

Or no, not forgetting, but letting go. He was slowly learning to live with the grief, to make it a part of himself.

And what did he have to look forward to? He was nearly sixty. Alone. He could rely on more of the same. Another year, duplicated. More needy Charley, threatening to leave. More bored student faces. More irritation as the world slowly changed around him and he seemed to stay standing still. He wasn’t even drunk and here he was, getting all maudlin on himself. He was tempted to let the mood take him and leave the party, go home and get roaringly plastered.

“There you are, old man,” said an accented voice from behind him. He didn’t turn but he smiled, the dark mood ebbing as fast as it had come. He touched his cheek with the tips of cold fingers and relished the feeling. This was also the year he had remembered how to let himself smile.

An arm was flung around his shoulders. The hand held two plastic cups filled with god-only-knows-what. It was a typical Max arrival; bold and dramatic and completely earnest.

Another big development this year: his friendship with the often irritating guest lecturer, his neighbor and somehow, his best friend, much to Charley’s chagrin. The expat had somehow wormed his way into George’s life and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Max waggled the cups, clearly meaning for George to take one. He obliged and took a sip. Max pulled George closer. He was warm and George was tempted to lean into him, but the Romanian’s casual affection always caused more confusion down the road than it was worth, or at least he told himself this. It would be too easy for George to read something unintended in the almost flirtatious touches and camaraderie.

He shrugged Max’s arm off and turned, leaning against the railing. The lights from the cafeteria backlit the man so all George could see were the curves of his cheek, the glint of light catching his eyes. He propped his hip against the rail and faced George.

“I’ve been looking for you for nearly half an hour. Did you know that we work with some downright bores?” He was grinning broadly. George sipped his drink again - God awful punch and strong - and tried not to smile back.

“You’re drunk.”

“Damn right, I am. And you’re going to catch up. I can’t believe you left me alone.” He held up two more cups and lifted his eyebrows comically. George rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist. He slugged back the rest of the punch in his current cup and took another, fingers brushing against Max’s hand. 

“That’s right! Tonight, George, we welcome a new year - a year I thought I’d never live to see. Now, that’s something to celebrate. - so let’s toast.” He tipped his cup and tapped it against George’s. “To living.”

He took a large drink and George mirrored him. The way Max said his name always made it feel far more exotic than it was - soft g’s and the e pronounced at the end. He only did it with George and it made him feel special, like Max had made George’s name his own.

“Now you,” Max prompted softly, sliding toward him and bumping their shoulders together. The first drink was just hitting him and he felt himself flush. He hoped the light from the party was too dim for Max to see. Although he supposed Max would know. They’d been drunk together many times in the last year.

He pondered about what to toast, comically tapping his chin with his free hand. He knew it would make Max laugh and it didn’t fail. The man leaned into him and chuckled. Max loved when George was animated. To this, he wanted to say. To us.

“To friendship.” He clinked their glasses together, but since they were plastic it made more of an unsatisfying tchk sound.

“Good one. To the future,” Max added. They both drank. Then George lifted his glass again and gave voice to the thoughts that had been plaguing him when Max had joined him.

“To letting go.” Max considered him, head tilted. He could see that Max knew what he was talking about. He’d told him about Jim. Besides Charley, Max was the only one who knew. Hell, the man had known before George had had the chance to put it all into words.

The light threw his strong features into sharp relief, a chiaroscuro painting. Beautiful, George thought and realised he was staring but the strong punch made it so he didn’t care. Why shouldn’t he stare? Isn’t that what one did at art? He smiled to himself. Max would scoff at that.

“To holding on,” Max said, his voice low. They didn’t touch glasses before they drank, so George tapped his to Max’s after emptying his second glass. It felt important to complete the ritual and George wasn’t above such primitive things.

“What are you holding onto?” George asked, stacking his two empty cups together. He thought about Alice and their boy in New York and hated himself a little for hoping it wasn’t them. Another part of him hoped Max would get a resolution to their grand romance.

“This isn’t a discussion. It’s a toast.” Max handed him the last cup. He looked pointedly at George. From inside, the sound of cheers and whistles rang out. Midnight. 1964. “Last one?”

“I’m all out, I’m afraid,” George said, looked back at the party, watched as the revelers embraced and kissed. He sighed. 

He hadn’t kissed anyone in nearly two years. Not since- well, it was no good dwelling on it now. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the men and women inside. He could still remember the thrill of it, the sparks a simple brush of lips could send cascading down one’s spine.

Beside him, Max shifted closer and George snapped from his reverie to look at him. He was more drunk than he meant to be. He’d certainly caught up with Max, maybe even surpassed him.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Max announced, invading George’s space. Too close, his reactions insisted. Not close enough, argued his body. Then his mind caught up.

“Why?” George whispered, because speaking normally would feel like shouting at this distance. He could smell the liquor on Max’s breath, could feel that breath on his cheek, and he wondered at the series of nerves and synapses that allowed action to become sensation, sensation to become desire, and desire to become-

“It’s a new year and I want to. Mainly the latter.” There was a brittleness to Max’s voice that prickled at the back of George’s mind like a caress. He shivered.

George looked at Max’s mouth and that was all the permission Max seemed to need. He leaned over and kissed him. George didn’t move. He held himself still and let Max press his lips to his mouth. It was the barest ghost of a kiss, but George felt it all the way to his toes, body lighting up like one of Max’s beloved stars. He inhaled against Max’s lips, suddenly dizzy.

Max pulled back, pushed away from the railing and stood in front of George, forcing his way between George’s legs. It was all very deliberate and very efficient and very-

“Max,” George said. He sounded breathless and pleading, but Max didn’t retreat.

“Happy New Year, Geo,” he whispered against George’s lips. “To us.”

George had been wrong. Max hadn’t yet kissed him. Before had been a poor prelude, a pale imitation of a kiss, because when Max truly kissed him, George wasn’t a star. He was a supernova. A hand went around his waist, another slid around the back of his neck, stroking the fine hairs at the nape. George dropped his cups as Max pressed their mouths together. They clattered hollowly on the pavement, but George was gone. Alight. What did cups matter when the world was fuzzy and a beautiful man was running his tongue along your bottom lip and you were full of something warm and undefinable?

George held on for dear life and for once, let go.

**Author's Note:**

> For my partner in all things Stirth, Chiara.


End file.
